


The Suffering of a Poet

by ilujwoo



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Diary/Journal, M/M, semi-modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilujwoo/pseuds/ilujwoo
Summary: Percy writes a poem in a journal. Monty reads it and thinks it's for him. It's not.Or, how Percy ends up meeting an 18th-century brat through a magic journal, and maybe falls in love with him somewhere along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i _hate_ having to do css stuff. it took me way too long to do that. if you can't read the text, just tell me lol
> 
> tggtvav blog @ [richardpeelehateblog](https://richardpeelehateblog.tumblr.com)

It’s inconspicuous, sitting between a Moleskin and Leuchtturm. _Controversial_ , he had thought when he first came to the shop, the two having used to be right next to each other, before realizing they were merely in alphabetical order of brand. However, the small journal between the two of them was definitely new, seeing as the shop didn’t supply any brand beginning with L or M other than those two. Glancing around, looking for the shopkeeper and not finding her, Percy lifts a hand to the spine of the journal, feeling soft leather under his fingers. Carefully, he pulls the journal out from between the other two, brushing his hand over the cover before flipping it over to see if there’s anything on the back.

Nothing.

Pursing his lips, Percy turns the journal back over to the front to inspect the cover once more. It’s as he’s thinking about going to the shopkeeper and asking after the journal that he sees it—there, in the corner, a small _M_ is embossed, the ends of the letter curling upwards. Percy frowns, unsure what brand this could be.

 _If it even_ is _a brand_ , he thinks, rubbing his thumb over the letter.

When he hears the door to the shop open, he stuffs the journal in his jacket, grateful for the colder weather requiring heavier clothes, before turning and grabbing one of the cheaper notebooks off the shelf behind him and bringing it up to the counter. There must be something off with his expression because the shopkeeper gives him a concerned look and asks a soft _You alright, dear?_ which he nods his head at.

As soon as he’s got a notebook he knows he’ll likely never used paid for, he’s out the door, pulling out the other journal only when he knows the shop is nowhere in sight.

It hasn’t changed at all since he put it in his jacket, still leather, a ruddy brown, with the small _M_ in the corner. He does notice, however, looking at it in the harsh winter sunlight, there is a slight indent around the middle, as if it had been worn down over time, likely by a string or thread of some kind.

Percy stumbles when the toe of his shoe catches on the edge of a manhole, the metal grate making a loud rattling sound as he rights his footing, having gotten so caught up in inspecting the journal that he lost focus of his surroundings. His cheeks heat when he catches a few eyes looking at him in a mixture of curiosity and disdain. Dropping the journal in the bag he got with the notebook, he decides to just look at it when he gets home.

✽   ✽   ✽

“Aunty?” he calls out as soon as he’s got the door open. From the living room, he hears the telly, some weather station on—he can hear talk of rain and thunderstorms from where he stands by the door.

“In here!” his aunt replies after Percy’s taken off his shoes and is heading towards the kitchen, where he finds his aunt making something for dinner. “Hello, Percy. You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“Turns out I didn’t need as much as I thought,” he replies, setting his bag down carefully on the table. “Where’s Uncle?”

His aunt sets down her spoon for only a second before she picks it up once more and gets back to moving the vegetables around on the skillet. “Out. Business thing, you know how he is. Dinner will be ready by seven. He’ll be back before then.”

“Okay,” Percy says, more of a sign to let her know he heard than anything else. “I got some notebooks.”

At this, his aunt sets down her spoon and leaves it there to turn around. “More? What about all the ones in your room?”

Percy picks up his bag again. “Filled.”

“Diaries, were they?” his aunt asks, lifting her chin at them.

“Sort of,” Percy admits. At her look, he holds the bag tighter. “Poetry.”

His aunt purses her lips but says nothing, merely turning around and picking up her spoon.

“I did…,” Percy begins, causing her to pause her cooking, “I got a diary, though. I think.”

“Interesting,” is all his aunt replies.

Percy nods once before turning to leave the kitchen, but his aunt’s voice stops him: “I’d like to read it sometime.” Percy turns around to see his aunt still busy with making dinner, now adding in tomato paste. “Your poetry. You should show it to me one day.”

Percy studies her for a minute, eyes narrowed, before flattening his lips and nodding. “Yeah. Maybe.”

His aunt doesn’t reply, just keeps cooking, so Percy turns back around and goes.

✽   ✽   ✽

As soon as he’s got the door to his room shut, he’s pulling out the leather journal, tossing the bag off to the side, other notebook still in it.

He can still see the indent around the middle in the light of his room, so he can only assume somewhere along the way the string got torn off or lost or something along those lines. That only leads him to wonder if there’s writing already in it. Cautiously, he begins to open the notebook to the first page…

… only to find a blank page staring back at him.

Percy sighs and resigns himself to using it as yet another notebook for poetry. Abso-bloody-lutely nothing special about this journal to any of the others in the shop or in his room. Since he’s not feeling particularly inspired, he decides to set the journal on his desk for now and maybe come back to it after dinner.

At the sound of thunder outside, Percy just about throws himself back on his bed and closes his eyes in hopes sleep will come quick.

✽   ✽   ✽

Knocking wakes Percy, making him jolt up and out of bed. At his call, the door opens, and his uncle sticks his head into the room. “Dinner is ready,” he tells him to which Percy nods and follows him down the hall.

At the table, his aunt is setting down plates, and at her nod, Percy goes to get the silverware. His uncle takes a seat at the head of the table, placing a napkin in his lap and swirling wine in the glass Percy’s aunt set down no less than two seconds ago.

Once they’re all seated, it’s Percy’s aunt who speaks first. “How was the meeting, Thomas?”

His uncle cuts into his pie before replying: “It went well; we’ve secured trade deals with the two other companies, but we’re still working on negotiations.”

His aunt hums, and Percy pushes some of the vegetables that spilled into his bowl around with a spoon. When his aunt sees this, she leans closer to him. “Do you want to try going back to vegetarianism? I know you said it didn’t help, but we can always—”

“I’m okay, thank you.” Percy cuts her off. “I guess I’m just tired today. The weather, maybe. I’ve also been trying to write more.”

His aunt blinks before sitting back in her chair. “Yes, of course. The weather. Oh, and, Thomas, did you know Percy got more notebooks today?”

“Did he?” Percy’s uncle asks, taking another bite of pie, looking at Percy after doing so.

Percy nods. “I did. I’m going to use them both for poetry.”

“Poetry,” his uncle repeats.

Percy shifts in his seat and takes a bite of his shepherd’s pie.

“Yes,” his aunt replies for him. “We actually talked about looking at it together sometime.”

“Did you?” Thomas questions, looking to his wife now.

“Not really,” Percy answers. “It was just a passing comment.”

He sees his aunt purse her lips, but she doesn’t disagree, so he tries to finish his meal as quick as possible before thanking her for it, taking his plate to the sink, and escaping to his room, where he knows the journal awaits.

Now that he’s had time to think about it, he’s kind of excited. Even if there’s nothing magical about it, it’s a wicked cool looking journal, and he’s starting to think he could look like a classic poet if he wrote in it outside in the park while wearing this sweater he got for his birthday and some skinny jeans. He shakes his head before he gets too carried away. It’s a dumb fantasy; he doesn’t care about the aesthetic or whatever. He just likes to write.

Once he gets to his room, he heads straight over to his desk where he pulls out the chair, takes a seat, grabs a pen, and flips the journal to the first page.

It’s still blank.

At least he’d been expecting that this time.

He clicks the pen to expose the nib and hide it as he thinks about what to write. He thinks about dinner, and his day, and the weather, and the shop.

Finally, he writes out a few lines, handwriting shaky in the way that it is when you don’t want to mess up, before setting down the pen.

He’s rereading them for the third time, thinking about crossing them out, when more words start appearing underneath them—words Percy isn’t the one writing.

I’ve never had poetry written for me before. I wonder if they’ve read some of my entries. That’d be something. They’d be turned off me immediately, I’m sure.

Percy blinks down at the page before turning it and finding the other side empty.

After staring at the journal in pure bewilderment, he decides the best course of action is to go along with it, as it appears the other person writing has no idea what’s going on either. (In fact, it seems they think someone’s taking their journal and writing poetry specifically for _them_. Percy holds back a laugh.)

Not to rain on your parade, but I didn’t write that for you. I wrote it for me. And I didn’t see any entries of yours in this journal when I got it.

I’m sorry. What? There’s no way someone else is writing in this journal at the same time as me. Witchcraft is illegal, I’m certain.

Percy bites his lip, more laughter straining to spill out. Witchcraft being illegal hasn’t been a thing for at least half a century. What year was this other person from?

Don’t worry. I’m not a witch. (Though that’s not exactly illegal, I don’t think.) I got this journal from a shop in Chester earlier today. I didn’t even know it belonged to someone else.

Well, it does. It’s mine.

And who exactly is that?

Henry Montague.

Percy taps the end of his pen to the edge of his desk before placing it back to the paper.

Is that supposed to be familiar?

Is it not?

Not at all.

Lord Henry Montague, Viscount of Disley, then. You might know me as Monty?

And I might be known as Percy. Putting a “Lord” in front of it doesn’t really help. Neither does the “Viscount” thing. I think I’d know if I met a viscount of some type, thanks.

You said you’re from Chester. Surely you’ve met a lord at least once? That lord maybe even being me?

Nope.

Your handwriting is poor, also. Yet you’re educated, clearly, so who are you?

I'm Percy. I thought we've already established this.

Lord Henry Mo—what’d he say it was? Monty?

Monty doesn't write anything for awhile, and eventually Percy takes pity on him (for a lord, viscount, whatever, the guy doesn't seem particularly bright) and decides to state the question:

I don’t think it’s a question of who, Monty. I think it’s a question of when.

He closes the journal briefly to let out a breath. If Monty is from a time where witchcraft is illegal and lords and viscounts and the like are still relevant… well, Percy can only assume he’s in for the ride, now.

Percy lets out another breath before opening the journal back up, to the third page this time, where Monty’s elegant script has begun to flow across the page:

What do you mean “when”? The year is 1726, of course.

And that’s when Percy snaps the journal shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT 9/6/18: I was re-reading Gentleman's Guide and noticed where Felicity mentioned the Clap Raid which happened in February 1726, so I figured for Monty it can be late-1726, and Percy is in late-2018! (Sort of, I don't know. Time is weird and man-made, y'all.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw:** canon homophobia and abuse **!!**
> 
> a joking tw: mention of a shitty meme

Percy tries to forget about the journal, placing it in one of his desk drawers and leaving it there overnight, then not touching it during the day, then still leaving it in there when night falls once more. He supposes it’s pretty cruel of him to do that to Monty, especially since the other doesn’t know what year it is for _him_ yet, but still, talking to someone who’s—a quick calculator check—nearly three centuries older than him is not normal in any sense of the word. Much less through some weird, magic journal. (He determinedly ignores the part of his brain that is gleefully wondering if _Harry Potter_ has turned out to be real after all, much like he wanted to believe when he was eleven. _It’s not_ , the side of his brain that sounds a lot like logic is quick to decide.)

After three days of radio silence on Percy’s part, he gives in and goes to get the journal out of the desk.

When he opens it, the pages are empty, and for a moment, he wonders if it was all a crazy dream, but no, he knows it’s not. He’s creative, sure, but not like that. With a sigh, he grabs a pen and begins to write:

1726, huh? You’re pretty old now, then. Probably dead, actually.

Harsh, he knows, but there’s not exactly any light way to go about this.

After about five minutes of tense silence filled with nothing but him staring down at the journal, Monty’s words start to appear:

That’s exactly what every man wants to hear! You know me so well, Percy, and we’ve apparently never even met! So what year is it for you?

2018

He waits.

I’m sorry. What?

The year is 2018.

That doesn’t make sense. I’m not the best at math, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that’s a really long time.

Two hundred and ninety-two years, to be exact.

Oh God.

Yeah.

So who asks first?

Asks what?

Don’t play dumb, Percy. It doesn’t look good on you.

You don’t even know what I look like.

Which makes Percy stop. Slavery had been legal back then. Racism was pretty rampant. It still is, if you think about it, albeit more subtly. He puts down the pen. What if Monty finds out who he is? _What_ he is?

For some reason, that makes him nervous. Which is weird because technically Monty is dead and has likely been dead for at least two hundred and some years, and that’s being generous and assuming he lived till one hundred. Unlikely.

Still, he can’t help but worry.

A shame, truly. I could provide a description of myself, if you’d like. But that’s for later. For now, I suppose I’ll ask the question: what’s it like?

2018? A lot better than when you were, or are, I guess, alive. It’s a lot cleaner, now. That’s for sure.

I’m quite clean, thank you.

Oh, I’m totally sure that you’re the cleanest gentleman at the party.

Percy rolls his eyes as he writes.

I can be dirty if you like, sweetheart.

Percy has a feeling that if he could, had typespeak existed at the time, Monty would’ve added a winky face at the end.

Moving on, there’s a lot less oppression. Like… a lot less.

Monty doesn’t write back for awhile, and Percy wants to smack himself in the face. There he was, being all nervous about Monty finding out he’s black, and here he is, talking about oppression and equal rights and the like. Of course.

That’s actually really great.

Percy picks his pen up again.

It is? I thought you’d be less into the whole “equal rights” kind of thing.

I wouldn’t use those terms exactly, I guess, but to put it simply: I’m not your average Englishman.

Yeah, you’re a lot richer.

You’re so funny, Percy. I’m absolutely wheezing.

I try.

But in all truth, I’m much more for expanded human rights than, say, my father is.

Your father?

I’m not getting into it.

Okay.

Good.

Percy turns the page and lifts a brow when more words start to appear.

So is there anything else?

Percy flattens his lips. It seems Monty really isn’t getting into it. He places his pen back to the paper.

I don’t think much else of what I tell you would make much sense. Especially without any explanation. I don’t think I’m the best person to be explaining these things either.

This really isn’t fair, is it? You get to know all these things about me, or the time I’m from, rather, and I’m left with your poor words.

I’m not trying to screw you over—modern saying, I think, sorry—I just don’t know how to explain it all without making you feel sick.

What, is it bad?

No, it’s great. Life is really great in 2018… kind of. But it’s all just hard to explain, especially when you’ve lived with it all your life.

That makes sense, I suppose.

Percy nods, more to himself, since Monty can’t see him.

But I see poetry is still a thing. What’s so great about it? It’s embarrassing. The most embarrassing, actually.

Most embarrassing what?

Art form. I think I can understand why all the poets off themselves.

Don’t be mean. It’s not that easy.

Yes it is.

What about what I wrote?

Well, I don’t want You to off yourself. I’m just saying

Percy starts writing before the other can finish writing himself.

So what? I’m a poet, you know. Don’t give me special treatment. Tell me all about how easy it is and how we all want to kill ourselves.

Fine. I’ll write a poem about you. Even with my limited knowledge of you!

Go for it.

There’s the shortest pause before:

There once was a fellow named Percy

And then…. The ends of Percy’s lips curl upwards.

Who

The _who_ gets crossed out, and instead Monty writes:

what rhymes with Percy?

What happened to poetry being easy?

Nothing. You just have the worst name for poetry.

That’s an insult, I’m sure.

This isn’t over, but you also haven’t asked yet.

About what it’s like? I’ll just read my history textbook.

You don’t want a firsthand account told by your favorite gentleman?

Based on the things you’ve told me, I’m not sure you could classify yourself as a “gentleman.”

And I suppose that was an insult?

Maybe.

Could you humour me at least? I am your favorite gentleman, emphasis on gentleman.

Percy taps his pen to his chin for a second before smiling.

You win. What’s it like in the Roaring 20s?

Why use modern references if I don’t understand them?

Just think of them as ways to become the most learned gentleman of your century. Sadly, even after talking to you, the same can’t be said of me. Lots of other things to learn about now.

Really? That’s so sad.

The laugh that bubbles up Percy’s throat comes out a cough.

That was almost a modern reference, you know.

How so?

Not explaining. I’m just going to say that the words you used are the first half of a phrase we use today. Sort of.

You, Percy, are the worst glimpse of the far future I’ve ever had.

I’m the only glimpse of the far future you’ve had.

That’s fair. Well, as your however many glimpse of the far past I am, I’ll say that it’s both a mixture of terrible and terrific because while it is fun to lose myself in the touch of strangers and joys of wealth, I’m also extremely lonely and have the weight of the entire estate on my shoulders. Also, it is not as dirty as you seem to think.

I’m ignoring that last bit. (About cleanliness.) I can’t imagine how you owning the estate is a heavy burden. I do understand the loneliness, though. I get along with people, but I haven’t quite acquired lasting friends.

Exactly! I find myself with lover after lover, but I think a friend is what I really need.

Monty, have you ever considered that you overshare information about yourself sometimes?

Never.

Of course. Also, why is the estate a burden? I already asked.

I know. I was actually kind of avoiding it.

Why? What could you do that I might not like? Actually, there’s a lot of things you could do back then that I wouldn’t like, so maybe don’t answer that.

Christ. I don’t know if that reflects worse on you or me.

You. Society has changed a lot since you were alive.

“Since you were alive” is something I thought I’d never have to read about myself, yet here I am. Well, I can assure you I am nothing but progressive.

Of course you are.

I mean it! I’ve seen the worst of society, I like to think, and I’ll have you know I’m nothing like that.

How do you even know what you’ve seen is the worst of society?

I already told you “I like to think.” I didn’t exactly say it was.

You implied it.

Not important.

There’s a moment in which neither of them write anything, and the words start clearing from the page. Percy looks at the clock; assuming they live in different years but progress at the same time, there’s a strong chance Monty’s fallen asleep. It’s late. But then words are scrawling across the page, and Percy is quick to read them.

I’ll tell you why having to run the estate is a burden, but only if you tell me something I may not like about you. And you have to fulfill your end of the deal if you agree. I can’t tell you and have you walk away.

Percy swallows as he reads the words over again. Though they seem to be asking for so little, Percy feels they’re asking for a lot. He runs the pad of his index finger over Monty’s script before flipping the page and picking up his pen.

Finally, he writes back:

Okay.

Several beats pass in which Monty writes nothing at all, and then—

My father passed his name on to me, but I think he regrets that decision now. It could easily be said I haven’t lived up to his expectations. I may or may not get drunk… a lot. Which is reasonable, if you have my father. (Consider yourself lucky you don’t.) And then there’s

The writing stops, the words ending there, and Percy is beginning to think Monty’s either passed out from sheer exhaustion or passed out from anxiety when they start up again.

Richard Peele. That bastard. (Though I don’t think he’s Actually a bastard.)

Percy frowns, tapping his pen against his lips, wondering just what this Richard Peele could’ve done to seem to get actual anger out of Monty, who seems pretty easy going overall. He stares at the name a little longer, and it’s right before the words resume that it all clicks in place and Percy knows exactly what could’ve happened that made Monty’s dad dislike him and make Monty dislike Richard Peele.

At my father’s Christmas party, the year I turned thirteen,

(And oh, Percy does _not_ want to read about this, but the words still appear anyway, with no regard to Percy’s feelings on the matter.)

I kissed Richard Peele, and I thought it was all okay (especially because it was a first kiss and I was actually a bit nervous but as far as first kisses go it really was quite fine), but Richard got cold feet and went and told his parents and everyone he knew and also just about anyone who would listen that I was perverted and forced myself on him

There’s a pause, and Percy wonders if Monty’s had enough and decided telling Percy isn’t worth it, but then he sees it’s because Monty is aggressively writing a dash over and over, darkening the words that follow with more ink:

**—which is extremely untrue because I would never do that to Anyone,** and every shag I’ve had with him since then was completely at his volition. I am but a willing stander-by.

Percy decides he can go without the rest because if Richard Peele is blabbing to others, he knows what will likely come next. He writes:

Too much information about the shagging bit, Monty.

There’s a pause before:

But you’re still here.

Yeah. I’m still here.

For a while, neither of them write anything before:

He made me apologize, my father.

Monty

He made me apologize to the Peeles and then went on the whole “lots of boys mess around at that age” speech.

**Monty**

And then they left.

Monty, you don’t need to tell

It hurt so much

Monty, seriously I

Percy crosses out his words before dropping his pen onto the desk. He doesn’t even know what to say. Finally, he settles on writing what he feels:

If I had been alive at the time, and I had for some reason been friends with you, for what it’s worth, I probably would’ve hit Richard Peele so hard he’d lose a tooth.

Monty doesn’t write anything for a bit. Percy doesn’t either. Eventually, though, Monty’s script shows up again on the page.

We would’ve been friends.

Percy’s a second away from writing a short _yeah_ when Monty writes some more:

So what is something I might not like about you?

Percy sets down his pen. He knows there’s really only one thing he should write, especially after what Monty said about himself, so he finally says _fuck it_ and writes it:

I’m black. Technically half-white, but I don’t know how much that would count for back then.

Monty doesn’t respond, and loud alarms begin going off in Percy’s head, all of them blaring things like _you fucked up!_ or _he hates you!_ And he’s starting to believe them when Monty writes:

That’s it?

What does that mean? “That’s it?” ????

I just

(The words cross themselves out.)

I don’t know. I wasn’t really sure what you would say. Maybe I should’ve expected that, especially since I’ve shown my rather loose morals but said nothing on… that.

Maybe you should’ve.

Well, it’s all out in the open now.

Percy feels a little dumb asking, purely because of how utterly _juvenile_ the question is, yet he can’t help but ask:

Would we still have been friends?

If I had any say in it, yes.

Percy lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. It’s Monty; why did he even worry? And then he thinks about how he seems to _know_ Monty now and maybe it’s still a little weird talking to a guy from 1724 and maybe it’s actually more than a little weird he considers said guy a friend but—Percy looks at the notebook, the words now fading from the pages—but he does.

Monty and Percy, somehow, miraculously, are friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of monty's stuff in this was from the book but this is prolly the only chapter in which it's close to the book (events/quotes-wise) b/c the plot is only getting wilder from here
> 
> also if there were any errors in the formatting of this chapter, i'm sorry, i edited this at different times so ya


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw:** slight ableism **!!**
> 
> note: i don't have epilepsy, nor do i know anyone with epilepsy. i'm trying to do research, but since i don't have an actual person as a source, i can't guarantee accuracy :(

It’s been about a week and a half since Percy got ( _not stole_ , he thinks, remembering how he had shoved the journal in his jacket) the notebook, and Monty and he have only managed to write more and more in it, seeming to never run out of things to say once they got those oddly harsh truths about themselves out.

He’s going into the kitchen to make a quick lunch when his aunt catches him. “You’ve been in your room a lot more than usual. Are you feeling alright? We don’t need to take you to Dr Greene, do we? Everything’s okay?”

Percy moves quicker with the more questions she asks. Ever since his uncle made the threat to send him to a psychiatric hospital once (not that that’d even be possible nowadays) when things got particularly bad and out of control last year, his aunt has been constantly asking after his condition. Honestly, he thinks she’s overreacting. His uncle had already talked to him about the things he said, and the whole issue has been resolved, even if things are still a bit awkward and cold between them. Some things just can’t be taken back, Percy supposes.

When his aunt finally asks if they need to switch medications, Percy interrupts her: “Everything’s fine,” he says. “I’ve just been writing a lot.”

At this, his aunt’s mouth finally closes, and she’s left to stare as he prepares a sandwich.

“Are you liking what you’re writing?” she asks only after the silence has begun to grow heavy.

Percy pauses his sandwich-making to glance over at her. She’s got an elegant hand on the wall, awkwardly leaning into it, as if she had tried to look cool and relaxed but failed and instead looks only uncomfortable and, Percy bites his lip, uppity.

He thinks about her question. He supposes she’d be of the same class as Monty, her status as a woman the only thing to lower her power, and, even today, he can see her fitting the part. Yet Monty… Monty isn’t like that. He’s nothing like what he had assumed of the English upper-class in the 18th-century. Mind flipping through conversations they’ve had through the notebook, Percy allows a smile to form on his lips.

“Yeah,” he answers eventually. “I like what I’m writing.”

✽   ✽   ✽

And my sister!

Monty is ranting, words appearing more quickly, handwriting becoming more sloppy. 

She says she wants an education, but all she reads are amatory novels, and any time Mother or Father discuss finishing school with her she gets all irritated and irritating.

_Oh, Monty_ , Percy can’t help but think, _you stupid, stupid, self-centered boy._ He writes back anyway.

I’m sure there’s reason in there somewhere. Have you tried looking at it from her perspective? You two have very different paths to follow.

Ugh, don’t remind me.

Percy presses his tongue to the back of his teeth. “Ugh” was a term he wrote once that made Monty laugh and use it frequently ever since. It is a bit humorous, seeing as it’s someone from the 1700s using 2000s words (sounds?), but it’s also a bit annoying when it’s being used in every other sentence.

Don’t think about your half of that, then. Just think about Felicity and her role of the time versus how she is.

Lady equals her role. Not a lady equals Felicity.

You’re so dramatic.

You know what they say: the theater is the breeding ground for sodomites and fops!

Actually, no. No, I didn’t know they say that.

Again, you are absolutely hilarious, Percy. I can never seem to contain my laughter around you.

Back to the point, though. Be a little more sympathetic to her situation. Finishing school ≠ education. At least, not the one it seems she’s expecting.

So she wants a gentleman’s education.

That’s what it looks like to me.

And you’re probably right. As you are with most things, it seems. Are you sure you aren’t a witch in 1726 playing a cruel trick on me?

Certain.

Damn. It would’ve been nice to actually meet you.

Percy stills, pen still in hand. Finally, he shakes his head.

You’re right. You know, we never said what we look like. That was your idea, wasn’t it?

Are you sure you want to know? I’ve been told my looks alone are enough to make someone fall in love.

Shame I can’t actually look at you, then.

It’s getting harder and harder to tell when you’re complimenting me versus when you’re insulting me.

I… don’t actually know which one that falls under either.

Well, should I go first or you go first?

It’d be nice if I could just

Percy sets down the pen. Monty’s writing something, asking what he was going to say, but Percy’s mind is stuck on the idea that he could maybe just tape a picture of himself to the journal and have Monty see it. He’s not sure it’ll work, but it’s a good idea to try.

Hurriedly, he digs around in his drawers to find the one that has all his physical pictures saved. He’s not one for taking pictures of himself, and there’s no one to ever take pictures of him, but he’s pretty sure he’s got a school photo from his last year in high school inside the drawer somewhere. When he finds it, he pulls it out and studies it.

It’s… not the best picture of himself, but it is the most recent picture of himself.

Carefully, he sets it down on the open page before grabbing some tape to keep it on there. Underneath the photo, he writes:

Did it work?

Monty doesn’t respond for a bit, and Percy worries he looks like some idiot. When more than a couple minutes have passed, Percy wonders if Monty got distracted but then:

It’s not like I can put a painting on here. What is that, by the way? It looks too realistic for such a small thing to be a painting.

It’s not a painting. It’s a photograph. I don’t think you’ll ever get to use a camera (something that takes the photographs) ever, though.

Was it made recently? (In your time.)

No. I think the first camera was from the 1800s.

I see. Well, I can’t exactly do what you did, so words will have to do.

Go for it.

My face is my best feature

I don’t think that’s how it works

though my hair is also quite nice, and even when I wake, it looks great

#youwokeuplikedis?

I read that aloud, don’t know what # is, but yes. And I do wake up like that. So there.

Will I find your name to be Narcissus and not Monty?

You wound me, Percy. Really. No. I just know what I have and use it.

I think the phrase you’re looking for is “work it”

Probably. So many wear those wigs and the like, but I think my hair just isn’t meant to be confined to those. It curls slightly, too, you see, so even if I were to wear the wigs, I don’t think it’d work out.

I see.

Good. It’s dark, but not brown, maybe a bit reddish-brownish? Auburn? Not sure.

You’ve spent a long time talking about your hair.

It’s just as important as my face. Which is defined by a straight nose, kissable lips, and good cheekbones.

Stunning.

It is.

I honestly don’t know if I should be believing you right now or not.

You think I’m lying?

Sort of?

So cruel. I’m **not** lying.

Alright. I’ll believe you. Still wish you could just put a picture in the journal.

Me too. But that’s not possible. Your picture is still in here, by the way.

Oh God. I don’t take many pictures of myself, and no one really takes pictures of me.

If I were alive then (2018), I would take pictures of you.

Percy stares at the page, unsure how to take his friend’s words. Finally, he replies:

You’d probably take pictures of yourself. Don’t try to flatter me.

I want to argue, but I do see where you’re coming from.

Percy shakes his head.

It’s a photo from school, so I don’t really look my best. Maybe one day soon I can take a picture of myself on a device that I’m too lazy to explain and print it out to show you.

I’d like that.

Percy smiles at Monty’s words before flipping the page back over and removing the photograph.

Why’d you remove it? 

The words appear as Percy turns the page back to where they were last writing. He frowns.

Why would I keep it in here?

It’s

Monty doesn’t write anything for a while.

a nice reminder that you’re real. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

Percy’s frown only deepens before he settles on:

I can leave it on the front page, if you like? Or the last, in case anyone takes the journal.

There’s a pause before Monty replies:

The first page is fine.

Nodding, Percy takes the picture, tape still on the corners, and places it carefully on the first page of the journal. As soon as that’s taped back down, Monty is writing.

Thank you.

Percy swallows, feeling his cheeks heat as he writes back.

You’re welcome.

Monty doesn’t write anything after that, so Percy closes the journal.

There’s a knock on the door, and Percy gets up to go open it. On the other side stands his aunt. “May I come in?” she asks when they just stare at each other.

Percy blinks before nodding and stepping to the side, pulling the door farther open, to allow his aunt into the room. She looks around, eyes landing briefly on his desk, gaze lingering only when it reaches the journal, before she moves to take a seat on the bed. Percy follows her example by sitting back down at his desk.

“Is there something you want to talk to me about?” he asks eventually because the air in the room has quickly become suffocating.

His aunt rubs her hand over a wrinkle on his bedsheets before looking to him. “No. Just wanted to see what you were doing.”

“I already told you,” Percy replies, unsure of her motives, “when we were in the kitchen.”

At this, his aunt flattens her lips, but she doesn’t deny it.

“Are you okay?” he asks finally, not knowing what to do.

“I’m fine,” his aunt answers, palm still smoothing over his bedsheets. “I suppose I just feel that it’s time I make…. I’d like to get to know you, Percy. You’re my nephew.”

“I guess,” Percy agrees. He looks at where his hands are folded on his lap. “But why now? Why not before?” He lifts his eyes to his aunt, who looks away.

“It’s hard,” she responds. “I never know what to say. Never know what to do.”

Percy licks his lips and drops his gaze back to his lap. “Oh.”

“It’s not your fault,” she rushes to assure him, though Percy doesn’t believe her. “It’s just… your father came to us so suddenly. He said he had nowhere to turn. Perhaps that’s true. Your grandparents… they have been gone for long, now. And your uncle’s parents, they were never close to us. Your father truly had no one left to come to. And he comes with a baby!” She lets out a quiet but incredulous laugh. “We didn’t know what to do. All we could do was say ‘yes’ when he gave in to his illness, and you were given to us.”

Percy closes his eyes. They never talked about his father. It wasn’t a particularly sore subject for Percy, who had been too young when his father died to ever grow close to or remember him. His mother was never there either, and he’s been left to assume she died sometime during childbirth. He opens his eyes. Of course.

“Is that all?” Percy asks. “It just seems a little too late for you to want to get to know me now, when I'm only a year away from going into uni.”

His aunt lets out a soft sigh. “Maybe. But I’d truly like to get to know you. If you’ll let me, that is.”

Percy looks at her then, and she does look earnest, really, hands now imitating his and folded atop her lap, back straight as she leans forwards slightly towards him. He looks away, to the journal. He's seen isolation, having family but not being a part of it. He’s seen the way Monty seems to be at odds with everyone in his family, save his mother, who he hardly talks about at all. Percy doesn’t know how it’d be, had his father survived and his mother with him. Doesn’t know how he’d turn out, how close to his parents he’d be. He’s left with their shadows in his aunt and uncle.

He bites his lip, chewing it, as his fingers lace and unlace over his lap. Finally, he nods.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” his aunt repeats.

Percy looks over to her.

“Okay,” he confirms.

His aunt stares at him for a second, eyes wider than usual, lips parted the slightest bit, before the ends curl upwards.

“But,” Percy continues, “I’m tired of you looking at me and seeing only my illness. I’m not the frail kid you seem to think I am.” He pushes his chair away from his desk some to slide closer to his aunt. “The medication works, and I don’t overexert myself. We have quarterly visits with Dr Greene, and every time, she says I’m doing fine, so long as my medication works and I don’t overexert myself, which is what I _just_ said.” He gives his aunt a flat look. “You don’t have to worry at every small change in my energy levels or eating habits or sleeping habits or whatever.”

“Percy,” his aunt begins, but he shakes his head.

“You don’t need to apologize because I get it,” at her look, he leans closer, “really. I do. But I haven’t had a fit in months, not since that big one, actually, and things are fine. Just see me as myself from now on, okay?”

His aunt nods. “Okay,” she agrees. “I’ll see you as Percy, my nephew, not Percy, the epileptic.”

At this, Percy smiles. “Good. Though I’m kind of disturbed if that’s really how you saw me. And hurt, too.”

“It was just so bad, Percy,” his aunt tells him. “It felt like we couldn’t do anything.”

“You couldn’t,” Percy replies. “There isn’t much you can do—not to stop it, that is.”

A memory comes to mind, one of the flash of his aunt’s back disappearing from the room before things go hazy and blurred, Percy stuck where he is, unable to do anything but give in to the seizure. He shoves it away.

His aunt nods again, and Percy finally changes topics: “You said you wanted to read some of my poetry?”

At this, his aunt smiles. “If that’s okay.”

“I guess,” Percy responds. “No one’s really read any of my early stuff, which is probably for the best, actually.”

“Hush,” his aunt tells him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Percy merely smiles before getting up to go get one of his journals off the shelf, one marked _2014_. He hands it over to his aunt easily, her nails making clicking noises when they touch the covers. She smiles at him as she accepts it, and he takes a seat as he watches her open it to the first page. As soon as she starts to read, Percy whirls around in his chair to face the journal he’s been most preoccupied with recently.

He flips past the first page, grabbing a pen as he does so.

My aunt is reading my poetry, and I actually hate it.

It doesn’t take long for Monty’s words to fill in the space under his own.

So you admit it’s the most embarrassing art form?

No. It’s just embarrassing when it’s your own writing being read by someone you have to live with.

That’s true. Hopefully Past You wasn’t too terrible at writing.

I don’t know. I was thirteen.

Oh God. There’s no way you weren’t terrible.

Exactly. This is just painful.

You can tell her you changed your mind, right?

Yeah, but I already gave her the notebook. I’d look dumb if I just took it back from her.

Good point. But still: if it bothers you that much, you really should tell her.

**You’re** giving advice to **me** about how to deal with other people.

Touché. Well, I don’t really have anything else to tell you. Sorry

It’s fine. I think I’ll just suffer for a bit. At least she’s not reading thi

“Percy?” His aunt’s voice interrupts his writing, and he snaps the journal shut.

“Yes, Aunty?” he responds, worry growing in his chest, thinking she found some poem he knew he shouldn’t have written but did anyway because he was feeling rebellious or spiteful or something.

But all she says is, “This poetry is actually quite nice. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

Percy closes his eyes and lets out a breath before opening them again and turning around to send his aunt a smile. “Thank you, Aunty,” he replies.

She smiles back before going back to reading, and Percy opens the notebook once more.

Monty’s managed to cover the entire page in question marks and concerned words, so Percy flips the page to write:

It’s fine. She was just telling me that my poetry isn’t actually bad.

Oh. That’s good?

Cross out that question mark, and then I’ll agree.

There’s a second where nothing changes, and then a small line goes through the question mark Monty had written. Percy lets out a quiet laugh before writing:

It is. I guess I’ve always been good with words.

Ha. I’m going to write you a poem one day, swear it.

Sure, sure. “There once was a fellow named Percy” **sure**.

Just wait. I’ll write the best damn poem about you you’ve ever read, and you’ll just have to admit it’s easy.

I’ll believe it when I see it, Monty. For now, I guess you’ll just have to live knowing it’s not as easy as you seem to think.

You haven’t won yet, darling! This game isn’t over until I’m the winner.

Percy reads over the line again, having known what he was going to say but heart stuttering upon reading _darling_ . He tries to tell himself that that’s probably just how people talked back then, all flowery and flirtatious; furthermore, it’s _Monty_ (wherein lies the flirtatious), but still…. Percy shakes his head before replying.

Something in that seems intrinsically unfair.

Monty doesn’t write for a bit, and then:

Probably. But still. I refuse to believe poetry is anything but easy.

If you say so.

After trading a couple more lines, Percy hears his aunt close his notebook from behind him. He sets down the pen and turns around. “How was it?”

His aunt smiles, placing a hand gently over the front cover. “Good. Perhaps not as mature as other poetry, but it’s clear you’ve put thought into it. I don’t see why you should consider it lesser.”

Percy drums his fingers against the desk before shrugging. “It’s just not my best.”

“It was your best at the time,” his aunt replies.

Percy smiles. “Maybe,” he agrees, “but not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS AKJSHDKFLG i felt motivated to update/write more of this fic but it turns out this has been sitting in my drafts for the past, like,,, MONTH so uhhh guess i'm boo boo the payaso :"( anyway hopefully u guys enjoy this update!! the only bit of chapter four i have written is percy being like "he called me darling. Wow" which is a #mood (in a dream i had two days ago this girl called me her wife, and it's been on my mind ever since) okay obligatory thank you for reading, i love you all!!!!!!


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